Care
by 221Bme
Summary: John returns from a holiday, and begins to wonder about his friend.
1. Chapter 1

John had been gone for a month and ten days.

An entire month.

Gone.

But he was back now, still apologising over it, though he shouldn't have to, as he himself had pointed out multiple times. John rarely saw his family, and even if he wasn't on the _closest_ of terms with his sister, a man had to spend a little time with relatives, apparently.

The concept was foreign to Sherlock.

So when John had found himself completely free from work—not for the _whole_ month, obviously, he'd had to do a little bargaining there—of course he'd chosen to 'take a holiday,' as he'd put it.

 _A holiday from Sherlock._

The detective knew that, even if John didn't say it. Had to be true… Sherlock wasn't oblivious, he knew he was… well, difficult.

Ah well.

John was back now.

* * *

"Worked any cases while I was away?" John enquired as he settled into one of the dining chairs—the only one that wasn't currently occupied by rubbish—with a fresh cup of coffee and the paper, not glancing up at the detective reclining on the sofa.

"Mm… nothing very interesting…" Sherlock didn't open his eyes, fingers laced over his chest in his habitual 'thinking' position.

"I take it I didn't miss much, then." John grunted, flipping the page with a slight rustle. "Miss me?"

"You _wish._ " A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

John only rolled his eyes in response, and took a cautious sip of his coffee.

 _Still too hot…_

The only light on in the flat was the lamp by the sofa, but it didn't really matter, what with all the morning light filtering in through the curtains. It might have only highlighted the dust, but that was beside the point.

John's eyes wandered over the flat as he waited for his drink to cool, taking in the familiarity of it all. He had to admit, he'd missed the place.

Even if it did smell slightly of… something.

Blood?

Tinned peas?

A mixture of both?

Not really something to think about over coffee, he decided. Especially not this early in the morning.

"So…" The doctor ventured, turning his attention back to Sherlock. "Did you, um… get out much, while I was gone? …Looking a little pale."

At that, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and flicked over toward John with an annoyed expression. An unspoken ' _how dare you?_ '

"I'm perfectly fine, _thank you_. My complexion is none of your business. Incidentally, no." He settled back into the sofa again. "Not many cases were actually involved enough to warrant leaving the flat."

"Right…" John straightened his paper, pursing his lips. "Y'know, now that I'm back, you _are_ going to have clear out some of this… stuff." He nodded toward the box of paper cups on the seat next to him. "I'm going to need to be able to sit down in my own home."

"You _are_ sitting down. And it's not stuff. It's things. _My things_."

"It's a bloody box of cups!"

"Very astute! I would have hoped you'd also notice that each one had soil in it, but at least you're making progress."

"Oh _god_ …" John made a face at his paper, barely resisting a face palm. "It's a box of dirt…"

"Well if you put it _that_ way—"

"You know what? No." John held up a finger, giving Sherlock a look. "We're getting you a case. A real one, a good one. So you can actually get out a bit, do some work, yeah? So you can stop… collecting… cups of dirt."

Sherlock just shrugged. "I'm writing a paper on the distinct differences between soil compositions in different locations throughout the United Kingdom. It's very interesting."

"What, the dirt? Or the fact that you're writing a paper on it? Because I'm very amused by that last one."

"Oh, shut up…"

It was John's turn to smirk as he returned to his coffee, which had finally cooled down enough to drink.

The quiet snuck back into the flat for a while after that, settling comfortably over the furniture and hanging about the windows like a heavy, imperceptible moth. And then, abruptly, it was gone again as Sherlock stirred, pushing himself up and getting to his feet—

John hadn't been paying attention, but as soon as he heard the _thud_ he glanced up quickly, at first mystified at the sight of the detective practically on his knees, one hand on the coffee table for support, head down.

He paused there for several seconds, a heavy breath escaping his lips.

It took almost that long for John's brain to connect what had he was seeing to what must have happened. But—that didn't make sense—Sherlock didn't… stumble. Especially not over thin air.

" _Sherlock—?_ "

"Fine." He waved a hand dismissively, managing to regain his footing, and now working on his shattered composure. "I'm fine… Just…" His eyes quickly scanned the floor, searching. "…the rug. Must have… tripped."

John just stared at him, coffee and paper momentarily forgotten.

 _Tripped?_

 _That didn't exactly seem right… Sherlock hadn't even taken one step yet_ …

John may not have been a genius detective, but he _was_ a doctor, and he knew enough to be able to deduce immediately that no, Sherlock did not appear to be _fine_.


	2. Chapter 2

"No, Sherlock, really—" John had set his coffee down and was ready to stand up, if need be. "Are you alright?"

Now that he really considered it, the detective did look a little rough… John had previously attributed that to just having spent too much time indoors, but maybe…

"Might've caught something earlier in the month," Sherlock offered casually, still trying to recover his usual poise.

"What, you mean like a cold, or something?"

"That… seems possible."

"Right, so… what had you been doing for it?" John unconsciously clasped his hands, the doctor in him rising to the surface.

Sherlock didn't look at him for very long before his gaze went wandering. "…doing for it…? Hm…"

"…you didn't do _anything_ for it?" John's brow furrowed. "Not even… I don't know… tea?"

The detective scoffed out loud, rolling his eyes. " _Of course I did._ I made _countless_ cups, even—oh…" He paused, apparently struck by realization. "Although I suppose they _were_ still there later when I… ah. Right…"

"Sherlock. You're supposed to stay hydrated, _especially_ when you're ill. Honestly—did you not _know_ that?"

"Of course I knew that! I just… forgot."

"You… forgot."

"Yes, that's what I just said. _Do keep up_." Sherlock huffed, making his way over to the kitchen and putting on the kettle.

John raised an eyebrow. "Going to actually drink that one?"

"Yes, of course I am." Sherlock leaned against the counter's edge as the water began to boil, filling the kitchen with its familiar bubbly clamor. "I'm making it, aren't I?"

John just sighed quietly, shaking his head and finally going back to his coffee. "Put a bit of honey in it. Good for a sore throat."

* * *

It wasn't until shortly after John had returned that Sherlock became aware of how exhausted he really was.

For much of his flat-mates absence, sleep had seemed a pesky little nuisance that tugged at his shirtsleeve and whined at him to _'please, go to bed.'_ But a lot of the time he had shaken it off in favour of another nicotine patch, another sample under the microscope, another page typed out, or yet another late night violin performance for no one but himself. There had been a sort of gnawing feeling in him then— _do more, don't waste time with sleep,_ _ **get more done.**_

Now all of a sudden sleep was screaming at him.

Sleep had punched him in the face.

Sleep had given him two black eyes, and was shrieking like a banshee for him to stop, drop, and black out. And it was becoming near impossible to resist.

* * *

John's first day back on the job was relatively uneventful.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing however, in the doctor's opinion, as there was usually no shortage of eventful situations when living with the world's only consulting detective.

A man had to have a break now and then.

On the way home John decided to pick up some take away for dinner, remembering that his flat-mate had begun to look a bit drawn and peaked, and hoping to get at least some sort of nutrition down him.

As John stepped into the flat and set the bags down, shrugging off his jacket and beginning to settle in, he was puzzled by a soft, unfamiliar sound which seemed to be originating from the living room.

He'd seen Sherlock on the sofa when he'd come in, but hadn't thought much of it, as the detective was wont to lounge about, just thinking. John had even mumbled a greeting to him, which, predictably, had gone unanswered.

But now, as John cautiously approached the sofa where Sherlock was curled with his back to the room, he realised what that sound was.

He just wasn't used to hearing the deep, even breathing of his flat-mate as he slept.

 _He wasn't used to Sherlock sleeping too much anyway._

John stood there for a long moment, watching his chest rise and fall steadily, and had to wonder just how long it had been since the detective had last had a good, long rest. Probably not for a while.

Muttering under his breath John turned and walked to Sherlock's bedroom, retrieving a blanket, which he brought back to his catatonic flat-mate and carefully draped it over his sleeping form.

Sherlock stirred slightly, but did not wake.

Straightening up, John crossed his arms over his chest, lips pursed. "Sherlock…" He shook his head tiredly. "You idiot…"


End file.
